


The First Step

by Citrine (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Desperate and vulnerable Sherlock, M/M, Mention of childhood sexual abuse, Watersports, friendship/romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-28
Updated: 2012-08-28
Packaged: 2017-11-13 01:55:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/498152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Citrine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is only human. He has his secrets and his fears.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First Step

**Author's Note:**

> For my friend TRJ who said if you're chilling out over the bank holiday weekend I want angsty, desperate Sherlock.

Sherlock wants to piss.

John is amazed by his own stupidity, talk about the elephant in the room or in this case the train carriage.  All the signs have been there for the last half an hour or so.  Sherlock’s got his legs crossed and he keeps fidgeting. Every so often he catches his lower lip between his teeth and he’s staring doggedly out of the window, apparently fascinated by the most boring landscape John’s ever seen. 

So why the hell doesn’t he just get up and go to the loo?  John leans across the table and taps him lightly on the arm. The fact that Sherlock jumps proves how preoccupied he is. 

“Sorry.” John lowers his voice although the train is almost empty. “The loo’s free.” From where he sits John can see the illuminated ‘vacant’ sign at the far end of the carriage.  

“Why are you telling me?”

“Because you’re sitting there with your legs crossed.”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean that I want to – “

“Yes, you do and before you get sarcastic, no, it didn’t take me five years at medical school to work that one out.”

Sherlock glares at him.  “All right, so I do want to, full marks for observation, well done, doctor.”

“Just go then, while the loo’s still free and before it makes you any rattier than you are now.”

Sherlock turns his attention back to the flat, featureless countryside flashing past the train window.  John fumes quietly for a minute or so.

“Sherlock –“

“Mind your own business, John. It’s nothing to do with you.”

“Okay, fine.” John grabs his copy of ‘The Guardian’ off the table and opens it with far more vigour than necessary.

“This was meant to be pleasant,” he says thirty seconds later. “No murders, no missing kids, just a nice day out, but I suppose that was too much to hope for.”

Sherlock doesn’t answer. John studies his profile, the sharp curve of those bloody cheekbones. What was it Irene Alder had said, I could cut myself slapping that face? John thinks that it might be worth it just to get a reaction out of him.  Sherlock’s tongue flicks over his lip and he shifts position again. John gives up on the idea of slapping him in favour of worrying about him.

“Are you all right?” asks John gently.

After a fraction of a second Sherlock shakes his head.

“Just go to the bloody loo, will you?”

Another shake of the head.

“You are so exasperating.”  John can see how tense Sherlock is even before he grimaces and goes very still.   “Stop being stupid. You’re going to piss yourself if you don’t go to the loo soon.”

“I know. I didn’t have time to go at the station." Sherlock bits his lip, hard enough to draw blood. "I thought that I could hold it, but I can’t.”

John's shocked by the misery in Sherlock’s eyes. He has never heard him sound so desolate, so defeated.  John clasps his forearm across the table. 

Sherlock looks down at John’s hand and then up into his face. “Go and sit somewhere else. You can pretend that you’re not with me. I won’t blame you. After all there’s no point in both of us being publicly humiliated.”

“No, I’m not leaving you.” John tries to make sense of this situation, but he can’t.  “I don’t understand what’s going on in that daft head of yours though.”

“I – Oh, god.” Sherlock’s hand comes down over John’s and it’s a few seconds before his vice-like grip relaxes. “I’m sorry. I can’t last much longer.  Please just go away, John.”

John slides his hand out from under Sherlock’s and stands up. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

He walks around the table and sits in the aisle seat next to Sherlock. At least if the worse happens he’ll provide some sort of barrier between him and the rest of the carriage. 

“Please go, I don’t want you to see me piss myself.”  Sherlock hunches over. “Christ, it hurts.”

John puts his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and rubs gently. “What the hell is this all about?” asks John. “You’re in pain and you’re obviously upset, but you’d rather sit there until you wet yourself than go to the loo.” Sherlock’s hand is clenched on his thigh. John covers it with his and interlaces their fingers.  “Talk to me, Sherlock. Let me help you.”

“I don’t use train toilets, not ever. Not under any circumstances.”

“Why not?” John squeezes his hand. “Tell me why not?”

A muscle twitches in Sherlock’s cheek. “Something happened to me once, on the way to prep school. I’ve never been in a train toilet since.”

John is devastated and enraged. He wants to kill somebody and he wants to put his arms around Sherlock and never let him go.  John’s education took the state funded infants, junior and scholarship to a grammar school route, but he knows that prep school’s young, pre- adolescent. “How old were you?”

“Nine.”

“Fuck.”  John knows that they can’t talk about this here, even assuming that Sherlock wants to elaborate, besides which there’s a more immediate problem to deal with.  “Look, you know that I still have nightmares about the war, so I know how hard it is to put the bad stuff behind you, but don’t let the bastard win. Don’t let him humiliate you for a second time. Just go to the loo.”

“I can’t, whatever you think of me, however much of a coward you think I am …It hurts so much and I’m going to disgrace myself soon, but I…” Sherlock clenches his thighs. “Oh, god, I need to go!  But I can’t, I’m too fucking scared to even try, unless…”

“Unless what?” John prompts him.

Sherlock speaks so quietly that John can barely hear him over the rattle of the train. “Would you come with me?”

“To the loo? Yes, of course, if you want me to, but won’t it be worse having someone else around?” There must have been a second person squeezed into that tiny train toilet all those years ago.

“You’re not someone else, you’re you.” Sherlock manages the barest trace of a smile. “I trust you, John.”

“Thanks.” John feels stupidly embarrassed. He rubs his thumb over the back of Sherlock’s hand. Thankfully the loo is still free. “Can you make it?”

“I think so.” Sherlock doesn’t sound too sure.

“Let’s go for it then.”

John stands up and waits while Sherlock does so much more cautiously. He looks a question at him and Sherlock nods. John moves to one side to let him go first.

“Take it gently,” whispers John. 

He knows that the swaying of the train won’t help.  John stays close behind Sherlock and almost runs into him when he stops abruptly, clinging to the back of an empty seat. He bends forward with a gasp. John feels helpless, but he puts his hand in the small of Sherlock’s back and waits until he starts moving again.

Somehow they make it to the end of the carriage. But Sherlock is ashen and John can feel him trembling.  He doesn’t know whether it’s from fear or desperation, but he can’t bear the look of distress on Sherlock’s face. John opens the loo door.

“Come on. It’s all right.”

Sherlock’s frozen into place.

“You’ll wet yourself,” says John softly

“I don’t care.” Sherlock looks as if he’s about to cry.

“I care.” John takes his hand again. “Come on, I’ll look after you.”

“Promise?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die.”

Sherlock lets John lead him into the tiny cubicle, but he flinches when John locks the door.  His gaze goes straight to the toilet.  Sherlock groans and doubles-over with both hands jammed between his legs.  “Oh god…John…help me!”

John’s certain that this is all wrong, that given Sherlock’s past history he shouldn’t even be here, squashed into this tight space, but if he doesn’t do something quickly this is all going to end in disaster.  He reaches for the fastenings on Sherlock’s trousers.

“Hush, it’s okay. Move your hand a bit, this won’t take me a second –“

“Oh, Christ, I can’t hold on!”

“You don’t have too.”  John reaches into Sherlock’s boxer shorts and wetness spurts over his hand.

Sherlock makes a little wounded sound. “I’m sorry…”

“Don’t worry about it.” He pulls Sherlock’s cock free and aims it at the hand basin which is both nearer and higher than the toilet.  “Just go, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart? Where the hell did that come from? John prays that Sherlock’s in too much of a state to notice.  

Sherlock groans, finally breaking apart under the strain. The jet of piss is so powerful that it strikes the rim of the basin and sprays up onto the frosted window.  John quickly adjusts the angle so that the stream is directed at the plughole.  He can feel it vibrating through the cock in his hand.  John grabs the edge of the basin with his other hand when the train sways around a corner. Piss is still gushing into the basin and Sherlock’s almost sobbing with relief

John drags a shocked breath into his lungs. His sudden, fierce arousal is undeniable. He feels as if he’s suffocating and he hates himself.  His cock’s pushing urgently against his jeans and John wants to die of shame. The train takes another bend, sharper than the first, and the wild rocking of the carriage drives him into Sherlock’s hip.

They steady one another instinctively. Sherlock’s finally finishing and his whimpers have turned into little sighs.  John looks down at the floor, but he hears the stream peter out into a silence that is only broken by their rapid breathing.

“Are you all right?” John manages to ask although his voice sounds clogged and unnatural.

“Yes, but only thanks to you.”

John knows that he doesn’t deserve Sherlock’s gratitude. “It wasn’t…” He realises belatedly that he’s stilling holding Sherlock’s cock. “Sorry, I…” John gives up on trying to string a sentence together and settles for a sheepish smile. He lets go and steps away, banging the back of his knees against the toilet. “You’d better sort yourself out.”

Sherlock eyes for a moment and then he tucks his cock away and zips up his trousers. John knows that he wanted to be the one to do that for him. He’s still hard, confused and guilty.

They wash their hands and slip out into the corridor at the end of the carriage. When they get back to their seats John goes around to his side of the table, but Sherlock grabs his wrist.

“Sit beside me,” says Sherlock.

John sinks into the aisle seat and stares glumly at the tartan pattern on the seat opposite.  He’s still shocked by the strength of his own unexpected reaction, but he makes an effort to pull himself together. “You should be all right until we get home now.”

“Yes, we’ll be at King’s Cross in just over an hour.”

The silence becomes awkward. John knows that he ought to say something to reassure Sherlock that this is all behind them, all forgotten, but he knows that it isn’t. They’ve barely scratched the surface of the can of worms this has opened and there’s a mixed metaphor if ever he heard one.

John gives a half laugh and Sherlock looks at him and grins ruefully. A second later his smile vanishes.  Sherlock turns his face away from John. “That…incident I told you about it was the…the worse…rape…does that demean me in your eyes?”

John feels sick. He had suspected it, feared it, but now that he knows it makes his heart bleed. “No, how could it? You were just a kid and it wasn’t your fault. It’s never the victim’s fault.”  John looks past Sherlock, out at the twilight gathering over the rooftops. This seems to be a time for harsh truths. “It’s myself that I’m disgusted with.”

“Don’t be. There’s really no need.” Sherlock’s smile is full of tenderness and understanding. John has never seen him look quite like that before.

“I never expected that to happen,” confesses John.

“I didn’t either. I suppose I could say that I’m flattered, but that would sound flippant. Let’s just say that’s why I trust you, John.”

“You trust me because I got turned on by…by what you were going through?” John’s damned if he can make any sense of that statement. “I don’t get it, Sherlock.”

“You were sexually aroused. I was…vulnerable. You could have tried to turn the situation to your advantage, but you didn’t.”

“I wouldn’t ever do that.” John gives a hollow laugh. “I may be a lot weirder than I thought I was, but I have got some integrity left. Besides if we ever…”

“If we ever what?”

“If we ever…when we make-love….” John half-turns in his seat, so that he can look Sherlock in the eye. “Not like that, okay?”

“No, not like that,” Sherlock agrees quietly. “He put me off. He frightened me and I don’t usually indulge, but sometimes I think about you.”  A lightening quick smile flashes across his face. “After all you’re the only one who’s ever called me sweetheart.”

“Oh, shut up.” John knows that he’s blushing. “You should talk to someone, a therapist or something.”

“Not my style, John.”

John realises that this isn’t the time to pursue this. There are still demons to be slain and boundaries to be negotiated, but they’ve come far enough for one day.  “Well, just make sure that you have a piss at the station next time.”

Sherlock laughs. “I will.” He yawns.

The silence is comfortable. As familiar as the outskirts of London with house lights and streetlights coming to life as the train races past. It’ll be fully dark by the time they arrive home. Sherlock’s dozing. John settles against his shoulder and closes his eyes, just for a moment. They wake up just as the train’s pulling into King’s Cross.

A group of youths are hanging about on the concourse, drinking beer and shouting abuse at passengers. They snigger when Sherlock and John pass by, but they are obviously unimpressed and unintimidated so the teenagers wait until they are ten yards away before they start hurling insults.

Sherlock and John exchange a glance, silently agreeing to ignore the taunts they leave the station hand in hand.

 

 

 


End file.
